


Bugger me!

by devera



Category: Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham deals with that louse Hickey once and for all. Or possibly more than once. Maybe after a nap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bugger me!

**Author's Note:**

> Sheer ridiculousness, but sometimes kinkmeme's are great for that - crack pairings and zero angst. I love the trope of prim self-controlled guys getting surprisingly, pleasantly pwnd by the resident scoundrel. There's probably a word for that in Japanese. Buggered if I know it though.

Haytham’s not really quite sure-  
  
All right, perhaps he’s sure how he got here, as in this room. Charles had bailed him up, and in Charles’ carefully worded and perhaps far too sensitive manner had complained to Haytham at length about Thomas Hickey’s inappropriate behaviour. Haytham could have said it was none of his business (which was indeed the case, as far as he was concerned) but while Charles wouldn’t say another word about it, there would be looks and no doubt not a few  _pointed_  silences and Haytham was rather quite tired and found it marginally difficult to relax under such circumstances, so he had gone down to the common room and upon finding Hickey in a dark corner with his hand up the skirt of a remarkably unattractive, overly tall and strangely burly woman, had clamped his thumb and fingers upon Hickey’s ear and dragged him upstairs by it, as Hickey reeled drunkenly between laughing and complaining until Haytham had managed to get him inside his room and secure the door behind them.  
  
At which point there had been some drunken, suggestive and intolerably lewd remarks on Hickey’s part and some rather increasingly heated words on Haytham’s and they had eventually come to – well, not blows as such because quite frankly had Haytham meant to kill him, Hickey’s corpse would be cold by now. But that’s somewhat where it stops making sense, you see. Because Haytham isn’t really quite sure what exactly happened after that. Perhaps Hickey got a lucky hit in and he blacked out for a short moment between decidedly  _not_ killing Hickey and, well, now, this; Hickey’s weight upon him on the narrow bunk and Hickey’s hand down the back of Haytham’s somehow loosened breeches and his tongue in Haytham’s ear and-   
  
Dear God. Who is it making that obscene moaning noise and when are they going to stop? Perhaps he’s been drugged? He doesn’t remember being drugged but surely that’s the only thing that can account for the fire burning beneath his flesh in the wake of Hickey’s hands and mouth and the way he cannot seem to get a proper breath nor think nor banish the tinderflash of indignant (certainly indignant) sparks twisting his gut at the low, velvety sound of Hickey’s voice in his ear, murmuring a husky, ribald litany of how good he tastes and feels and what Hickey will do to him and how Hickey will give him anything, everything, because Haytham is – and this does come as something of a surprise – the sun and the moon and the stars or some such clap-trap.   
  
Honestly, he doesn’t believe he can be blamed for putting an end to such nonsense with his lips upon Hickey’s, nor does he think it terribly unusual that engaged so, he should suck upon the tongue that immediately introduces itself, slick and hot and sinuous, into his mouth. And if he feels a certain amount of smug satisfaction at the muffled groan that Hickey makes to that, at the way he thrusts his hips argumentatively against Haytham’s, well really, it’s understandable. Effects of the poison and all that. Must be, because his hands are pulling at his own clothing and Hickey’s without his express permission, until there is skin, a great deal of hot, sweaty skin, and Hickey is shifting, his disgustingly wicked grin low and wide, and then lower and wider still until it is closing around Haytham’s-   
  
Oh. Oh. That’s- Hickey is rather surprisingly good at- Ah. Oh dear. Perhaps Haytham ought to stop him, because surely tongues aren’t supposed to be able to do that and-  
  
Where the blazes is he putting his fing-!  
  
Dear  _God_.  
  
Extremely potent poison, that must be it, because Haytham doesn’t remember how his naked legs found their way over Hickey’s shoulders, nor how it is possible that the introduction of something much thicker than Hickey’s fingers should make him clutch at Hickey as if to prevent him from leaving. Someone is hollering. It certainly isn’t  _him_ , thank you very much, and it’s a damn shame his pistol is out of reach. Even a knife would do but it’s too late now and he probably wouldn’t be able to hold it even if he could reach it, for his hands open and close uselessly upon Hickey’s broad shoulders as Hickey thrusts and laughs a laugh that makes Haytham think of wonderful, indulgent things – fine linens and his love of Italian chocolate, the feel of the warm summer sun on his skin, and the approving smile of someone long since lost, someone who said Haytham was the centre of the universe with every look, every touch, every word – things he has not allowed himself to remember, to want, in a very, very long time. Which is utterly, ridiculously sentimental and entirely inappropriate, because Thomas Hickey is an uncouth lout, an undisciplined niget, an unrepentant thatch-gallows who is… who is…   
  
Who is smiling at him most handsomely, whose hands are most ungentle in all the right ways, who is demanding with hands and mouth and hips that Haytham let go, give over, to let Tom take care of him like this, now, always, ever…  
  
Haytham is probably damn lucky that poison didn’t kill him. The thought occurs to him some indeterminable time later while he attempts to catch his breath and waits for the feeling to return to his feet and considers forcing Hickey’s lax, panting weight off of him. Too much trouble, though. Can’t move his arms. Or his legs for that matter. Terrible state of affairs, really. And it is rather cool in the room. Hadn’t actually noticed. Conveniently, Hickey is quite amazingly warm, draping himself like a blanket or a particularly affectionate bear across Haytham’s exhausted, tingling body. Of course, the drunken sot is asleep in another moment, but never mind. Haytham’s had to endure worse discomforts than being crushed to near death under someone who has no sense of propriety and seems to think the outcome of their disagreement gives him some sort of license to have a hand upon Haytham’s arse like he owns it. Haytham will take it up with him later.  
  
And well, at least Hickey’s behaviour is no longer bothering Charles, or at least Haytham doesn’t  _think_  it is, and as long as Charles doesn’t ask, Haytham won’t have to try and explain what just happened, because really, he’s not entirely sure.  
  
Perhaps he’ll sleep on it. Yes, that does seem to be the best thing to do. And if he still can’t come up with a notion of what happened, he may very well have to have this discussion with Thomas Hickey - who even in sleep seems not to be able to moderate his behaviour in any respectable way - again. And again. Until Hickey learns his lesson.


End file.
